Page 72 of Of Empires and Dust
“This is becoming ridiculous.” Chora wheeled herself forwards from where she had waited on the right of the table. Both Thacia and Harken frowned but made no move to stop her.
King Galdra, who had been staring out one of the arches at the valleys beyond, turned to show Chora a raised eyebrow. “We will wait for Queen Tessara, just as we would wait for you, Chora Sarn. Patience is a virtue.”
Seemingly sensing Chora’s frustration, Harken rested a hand on the woman’s shoulder, but Chora swatted it away. “Don’t speak to me like a child, Galdra. I remember when you still sucked at your mother’s tit. Do not think yourself my elder. I have lost more patience than you have ever known.”
For as long as Aeson had lived, he had known the elven rulers to be masters at games and wordplay. Even before The Fall, there was always something churning in the background, always a game, or a test, or a scheme. Which was why Aeson was surprised at the outward look of shock on Galdra’s face.
Chora smiled, revelling in the reaction she had goaded from the king. The woman’s fire had returned ever since the battle for the city.
“You are speaking to a king,” Thurivîr, one of the Lunithíran Ephorí, snapped. The elf’s crimson and gold robes trailed along the floor as he rounded the table and moved between Chora and Galdra. He stood tall and broad, looming over Chora in her wheelchair, his black hair pulled back with a golden circlet.
Chora met Thurivír’s gaze without flinching. “I have spoken to many kings, young Ephorí. I have outlived them all.”
“Was that a threat?” Thurivîr gave Chora an amused smile, regaining his lost composure in an instant. It was his eyes that betrayed him; they spoke of fury and wrath.
“I don’t make threats.”
The enormous bronze doors creaked open, and the new queen, Tessara Vaelen Alumír strode in, black and silver robes flowing elegantly behind her. The elf moved with an almost arrogant grace, her two Ephorí, Dumelian and Ithilin, following in her wake.
Dumelian, as he always did, marched with his chin in the air, silver jewellery adorning his fingers and neck, the beginnings of a grin on his lips. No doubt he had been relishing this entrance for the better part of the last hour.
In contrast, Ithilin had a scowl like a stormhead, her gaze trailing the ground. The older elf had always had little time for the games the others played and, as Aeson knew well, had a particular proclivity for punctuality.
“This is going to be interesting,” Tarmon Hoard whispered, leaning closer to Erik.
Tessara glided across the floor, taking up a position on the opposite side of the table beside Galdra and Uthrían. She inclined her head towards both, bowing at the waist as shegreeted the matriarch of the Dvalin Angan, Varthon, who stood to the left of the stone table.
King Galdra returned Tessara’s gesture, his features carved into a dark stare.
Uthrían ignored her completely, which showed a very different side to their relationship than the one on display at the Eleswea un'il Valana. They were behind closed doors now, and the queen of Ardurän clearly had patience that was wearing thin.
Observing the reactions to the new queen, Aeson had the feeling Tessara played a different type of game than the others. Whereas her predecessor, Silmiryn, had been subtle and cautious in his manoeuvrings, often sycophantic to those that might aid him, Tessara seemed as though she might be far more blunt an instrument. Aeson was yet to decide whether that was a good thing, but time would tell.
The new queen of Vaelen moved closer to the table, clasping her hands before her and staring down over the stonework map of Epheria, pretending to be blissfully unaware of the many frowns and scowls that filled the room around her.
One look at Chora told Aeson that the woman wanted to tear a hole through Tessara there and then.
“Apologies for my lateness,” Tessara said finally, her voice lacking even a drop of sincerity. She lifted her gaze, casting it about the room, her stare resting on Calen for a moment before moving to Chora and Thurivîr, who were still only a few paces from each other. “I hope we’re all getting along?”
“Are they always this dramatic?” Dann whispered. “I think I’ll come to these more often.”
“If you don’t shut up, Dann, I’m going to skin you alive,” Therin whispered back.
Aeson turned to glare at Dann, only to see Tarmon clip him on the back of the head.
“I’m going to piss in your boots,” Dann whispered before shuffling forwards just enough so that Tarmon couldn’t reach him without making it obvious.
“Well,” Chora said, holding her stare on Thurivír long enough for even the elf to seem uncomfortable. “Now that we are all here, I believe it is time we set out the path forward.”
“Please,” Uthrían said, breaking her self-imposed silence.
Aeson looked to Chora and the others, who nodded for him to proceed. He was about to take a step forward when he turned to Calen and met the young man’s gaze.
Calen had emerged from the Burnt Lands an entirely different person from the boy Aeson had found in the western villages almost two years prior. He was harder, colder, and more sure of his own strength. But he’d also still shown the marks of captivity and torture, the weariness of travel and war. His eyes and cheeks had been sunken, his skin dry and cracked, and his frame had a frailty to it.
The man who stared back at Aeson now held that same sense of iron, even more so. He walked with his shoulders back, chin proud, gaze up. But his body had healed. The months of training and hearty meals had filled out his shoulders and hardened his muscles. He still looked tired, but not weary.
As Calen looked at Aeson, the purple hue of his eyes shifting with the light, he inclined his head, gesturing for Aeson to lead the talks, the petulance of youth gone. It was at that moment that Aeson was absolutely sure of one thing: the boy had become a man, and the man had become a warrior.
